Rip the Jacker

Rip the Jacker (Part 6--Final Chapter)

By Dolphin Dan

*** WARNING ***

This story focuses on masturbation and sexual desire among members of the same gender. It also contains descriptions of sexuality, including consensual homosexual sex. If it is illegal or morally uncomfortable for you to view such material, please do not continue. This story is a work of fiction. It did not happen.

[OUR STORY: Now that Kyle has humiliated the school administration by publicizing the attacks of "Rip the Jacker" to the student newspaper, he's decided to retire from the serial-jacking business. He fears his friend Paul, who is obsessed with discovering the Jacker's true identity, is coming too close for comfort. Kyle's final "attack" was a sham--he set himself up to look like the target to throw Paul off the trail. In the meantime, the Rip the Jacker story has made local, national, and eventually international news, appearing on Yahoo's "News of the Weird."]

Now comes the end of the story, in many ways the most important part: the final and "secret" attack of Rip the Jacker.

I had done the last attack, with myself as the target, in late January. The hubbub and controversy stretched through most of February, but began to die down in March. I kept my pants zipped and my mouth shut for the rest of the school year. I also noticed a curious thing: my masturbation habits began to change. I began to do it more regularly and far less ostentatiously. And I began to fantasize differently. I would still take notice of inanimate objects--someone's jacket, their shoes, a piece of jewelry, a book that they carried around. But I began to fantasize much more about direct sex with other guys. The idea of anal intercourse totally repulsed me, but I thought I would very much like to have a blow job from another guy--or to give one. The Tenets started to fade in importance. Masturbation was a normal thing now, and not a ritual. I started to think about how foolish and how dangerous the whole thing was. As time went on I became amazed that I was never caught. I even began to feel a little guilty about the hassle and anxiety I'd caused Joe Carallo, Mr. Lowery, Ronan, Dominick, Royce, Mrs. Brune, Mr. Reinhardt and Paul.

In April, Claire and I broke up. In a way our relationship never really survived the long period of virtual grounding that I suffered when my mother was still freaked out that "some pervert" had fixated on me. When I was allowed to go out and socialize again, I found Claire a little distant and not as enthusiastic as before. In early April we had a "talk." "I'm not sure this is for me anymore, Kyle," she said. "I really like you, but--I dunno, there's something missing." I accepted the dump with charm and grace. In reality I was really not that interested in her anymore. We hadn't had sex since the night I stole Dominick's gloves anyway. I wasn't interested in dating anyone. I was glad to be single and unattached. I could hang out with Jeremy and Greg on Friday nights instead of having to spend time with Claire. And the experience had taught me a lot. I still find it ironic that Claire discovered me as I was becoming the Jacker, and lost interest in me only after I ceased my activities. Maybe unconsciously I changed somehow during that period, and she was responding to that. In any event I'll never know.

What I do know is that, shortly after I broke up with Claire, I began to notice Paul's behavior change toward me. He started to call me a lot. Formerly he called only when he had something specific to discuss, but in the springtime he began to call frequently just to talk. "Hey, you want to come over?" he said one Friday night. "I've got a stack of movie rentals here, maybe we can hang out, get a pizza or something." I asked him if it was OK if I invited Jeremy, and he said, "Uhh, let's leave Jeremy out of it. I don't have enough money for two pizzas." That struck me as a lame excuse. I went over nonetheless. We hung out, had pizza, and watched two terrible horror movies. Later the next week he called me again. "Bored as hell," he moaned. "Wanna come over?" He answered the door of his detached garage wearing nothing but a pair of khaki cargo shorts. The waistband of some kind of boxer briefs--they were gray--was slightly visible under the bulge of his chubby stomach. "Hey man, what's up. Wanna see this new video I'm working on?" I didn't think too much of it. The weather was getting warmer, and I certainly didn't mind seeing Paul shirtless. But, although we had become somewhat closer friends over the past few months, suddenly it was like he was trying to be my best friend. It was a little weird.

I also noticed something else, something that only my eye would pick out. That day when he answered the door with his shirt off I noticed for the first time he had on a new watch I had never seen him wear before. It was an expensive Omega with a silver band. I liked it. Over the course of that evening, and several other times, I saw Paul fiddle with it obsessively. He'd take it off, drop it on the side of the desk--while eating, or typing on his computer keyboard or something--and sometimes put it back on, or sometimes he'd seem to forget and leave it lying around. I can't say the watch filled me with a tremendous amount of desire, but it was sexy. I have to admit that my mind began to churn with thoughts of him. And I also thought of what I might do if I was still the Jacker. I had never taken anything really valuable from anyone, and I would have had to be very, very careful if I had made a move to steal Paul's watch, which was clearly very expensive. But my mind, honed on mystery novels and the whole Jacker phenomenon, turned over the problem, solving it for fun the way you would solve a crossword puzzle. About a week after I first noticed the watch, I had my first fantasy about Paul Carson. It was very simple: he was jerking me off, while wearing the watch, and the imaginary sight of the light flashing off of its silver band as his hand moved across my member got me even more turned on.

That night I went to bed with the pleasant hum of post-ejaculation bliss still lingering in my head. I woke up some time later, in the middle of the night, with a terrible thought: what if Paul is baiting me? The notion was so strange and so arresting that I sat up in bed and stared into the darkness of my bedroom thinking about it. It wasn't so farfetched. He had certainly begun to pay a lot more attention to me. He had prodded me to come over to his house several times now. On at least two of those occasions he'd appeared shirtless, casually negligent of his appearance. And the watch had appeared quite suddenly. Was Paul trying to goad me into another attack, to use himself as bait to catch the Jacker once and for all? It was a little far out there, but certainly possible.

But if so, how had he figured it out? And if he had, why wasn't I in trouble? For an hour I lay awake going over in my mind what Paul could have known and how he could have found out. I considered each part of the mystery very carefully, but ultimately came to the conclusion that I was being paranoid, that I was afraid Paul was baiting me partially because on some level I was turned on by the idea that he might go so far as to do that. No; Paul had laid his cards on the table back in January when he played the recordings he made of the phone conversations. If, for instance, Ronan had remembered seeing me in the library, or if some other evidence had appeared linking me to the incidents, I'd have heard about it immediately. I probably would have been hauled into Reinhardt's office, possibly even arrested, though for what I wasn't quite sure.

Nevertheless I still couldn't get Paul and the Jacker mystery out of my mind. Over the next week--which was the first week in May--I watched him very carefully. He came to lunch with Jeremy and I every day. Several times he took off the watch and set it on the table next to his tray before starting to eat, but on one occasion he didn't; that puzzled me. When he talked to me he played with it obsessively, clicking the little clasp of the band open and shut. At one point he interrupted himself--"Oh, I'm sorry, does that bother you?"--and immediately ceased doing it. Wednesday night he invited me over again. He wasn't shirtless this time, but he was wearing a tank top. The watch was lying on his nightstand. I also noticed his room was completely trashed. There were clothes, books, video tapes and other bits of electronic equipment all over the place. Usually he was neater than that. "Sorry about the mess," he said. He opened the small refrigerator he kept in the garage. "Beer?" We drank some beers and watched another horror movie that night. He had a great video setup, as one might expect; the speakers he hooked up to his computer, which had a built-in DVD player, were great. Later on, when the movie was almost over, he did take his shirt off. He sat in his office chair, leaned back all the way, legs propped up on the edge of the computer desk, one hairy ankle crossed over the other. I no longer wore the jeans with the pockets cut out--I decided I wouldn't tempt myself--but on this evening I wish I did. I was rock-hard. I reached inside my pocket but couldn't get at my dick. I had to wait until I got home to get relief.

On Sunday afternoon he called again. "Got a great one for you," he said. "This really hard-to-find Italian splatter movie. You'll love it, man. Wanna come over and watch it?"

By now I was getting very suspicious. I didn't even like horror movies that much. But I was too attracted to him to say no. "Sure," I said. "Let me see if I can go out tonight." All my mother said was, "You've been spending a lot of time with Paul." She added, "I like him. Seems like a nice guy." Before I went out I changed clothes--I put on one of my pairs of jeans with a hole cut in the pocket. If I was to become aroused again, as I had the last time I was at Paul's, I thought it was at least possible that I could get away with trying to relieve myself. Paul had a bathroom in his separate garage. If I couldn't control myself, I could masturbate through my pocket almost to ejaculation, as I'd done many times as the Jacker, and then excuse myself into the bathroom, shoot my wad and be out quickly. I had no intention to leave a mess or even let on that I had done it. It would be a Jacker attack, at least in spirit. If I could get away with it, that was.

I got in my beat-up old Honda and drove over to Paul's detached garage. My suspicions that Paul was on to me grew as soon as I got there. His parents' cars were not in the driveway of the main house. Paul answered the door sans shirt again. Sans watch too--I noticed it sitting on the computer desk next to his keyboard. The room was even messier than it was on Wednesday. "What kind of pizza do you want?" he said, picking up the cordless phone. He called the pizza place and had a long conversation with the guy on the other end of the line. "What do you mean, the driver's backed up? How long will it be?" He paced, phone in hand, stepping over the clothes, boxes, video components and school supplies littering the floor. "Two hours? TWO hours? You're kidding." He put his hand over the end of the phone. "They're backed up on delivery. I can run over there and get the pizza if you want--it'll probably take less time. Otherwise we have to wait two hours."

"We can go over and get it," I shrugged.

"OK, I'll carry out," said Paul into the phone. He gave his information. Then he hung up. "Fifteen minutes," he said. He began pawing through a pile of clothes on his bed, looking for a T-shirt. "I'll just buzz over there and get it. It'll probably be ready by the time I get there."

"I'll go with you," I told him.

"No, don't bother. My car's totally trashed anyway, so there's no place for you to sit. Here, I'll start the movie. Have a beer. I'll be back in a while." He shrugged on a T-shirt, slipped on a pair of sandals, grabbed his wallet and car keys, and clicked a button on a remote control. The DVD player on the computer started. He exited the garage, leaving me absolutely alone. I was alone in his room, alone in the entire garage, evidently alone on the entire Carson property.

Wait a minute, I thought. Something isn't right. I get lucky, but not THIS lucky.

It was almost as if Paul had left me alone precisely so I could do what I planned. I hesitated for a moment deciding whether to do it. I walked over to the computer desk. I turned down the volume on the horror movie. I couldn't turn it off; when he returned Paul would notice not enough time had elapsed. I picked up his watch. It was lovely. I wondered if this was some kind of sting operation.

In glancing around the room I noticed something else too. There were several pairs of his underwear in the pile of clothes he'd just gone through while finding his T-shirt. I hadn't noticed them before; he had mixed up the pile and revealed them.

"No way," I said aloud. "No fucking way."

My dick was rock-hard. I stared at the watch, then at the pair of gray Hanes boxer briefs on the pile in front of me. This was TOO much. Paul was obviously pretty casual, and he didn't seem to be that modest about his personal appearance. But one would have to be completely unobservant to leave one's underwear lying about in full view when a guest comes over, and if there was one thing Paul was not, it was unobservant.

That was a very strange moment for me. I had a choice to make. I could grab his watch and his briefs, sequester myself in his bathroom, rip my pants down and jar loose the monstrous wad of sperm that I could already feel building in my balls. That would free me of my desire for Paul and my dangerous thoughts of returning to my old trade. But on the other hand it seemed too tailor-made an opportunity. If Paul came barging in right when I was shooting my load, it would be difficult to live down, and if he caught me with his underwear and his watch it would demonstrate that I was a fetishist, which would be pretty strong circumstantial evidence that I was the Jacker. My other choice was to sit down in the office chair, turn up the volume on the movie and watch it until Paul returned--keep control of myself and not give in to my darker instincts.

At first, that's what I did. I turned the volume of the movie back up, sat down and genuinely tried to become interested in it. It wasn't too interesting. First of all it was in Italian and the subtitles were terribly translated. Second of all, when you've seen one hack-chop cannibals-in-the-jungle horror movie, you've seen them all. Paul's watch blazed from the corner of the desk as if it had a light of its own.

Finally I stood up. "Shit." I decided I wouldn't do it unless I was certain this wasn't a set-up. I decided to look for him. I would look around outside; if neither he nor his family was truly there, no one would notice me snooping around, and if I found Paul hanging around I could make up a story about how the computer was acting funny or I heard a noise outside or I forgot something in my car. I opened the door of the detached garage and stuck my head out. "Paul? Is that you?" I stepped out. His car was indeed gone. I went to the end of the driveway and peered out both directions along the street, just to make sure he wasn't parked down the block or something. I went back to the garage and made a loop around it. There was no one there. The house didn't even have many bushes to hide in. Paul had definitely left the premises. I was alone.

I went back into the garage, closed the door and leaped into action. I left the volume of the movie alone; if anyone was there to hear me I would at least be drowned out. I grabbed Paul's watch. With my other hand I picked up his underwear from the pile on his bed. My hand quaked a bit as I brought it close to my face. I had never done this before; I hadn't even sniffed Crane's briefs when I had them. Paul's had a very musky, almost oaken aroma. It was incredibly arousing. I snapped the watch on my left wrist and I burst into the bathroom. I told myself I could not cum on Paul's underwear. I had to put it back exactly where I found it. I unzipped my jeans, tore down my boxers and caressed the head of my penis with Paul's briefs. Then I balled them up in my right hand and began to crank furiously over the toilet with my left. I watched my own wrist, glinting and flashing with the light reflection off Paul's watch. "Fuck!" I grunted, and exploded. I bent double, nearly losing my balance, and braced myself against the wall to keep my erupting dick positioned over the toilet so I wouldn't make a mess. I had an instant of panic as I realized that, when I put out my left hand to stop myself from pitching forward, I let go of Paul's briefs. They fell onto the edge of the toilet--but not in. A moment later they slid off the porcelain and dropped harmlessly to the floor.

I gasped. The orgasm I'd just had was unbelievable, mind-blowing. Aside from one small drop of cum that had landed on the rim of the toilet, I hadn't made a mess.

I cleaned up the rim of the toilet, wiped off my dick with toilet paper, and flushed. I picked up his briefs and examined them to make sure no cum had landed on them or that they hadn't gotten wet in any way. They hadn't. I exited the bathroom. I carefully put the briefs back on the pile where I remember seeing them. I took off the watch and replaced it in exactly the same position it had been on the edge of the computer desk. I collapsed into Paul's office chair, put up my feet on the edge of the desk as he often did, and watched the movie. I smiled. I had gotten away with it again.

Twenty-nine minutes after he had left, the door to the garage came open and Paul walked in, the pizza box under his arm. "Like the movie so far?" he said cheerfully. He took his keys out of his pocket and tossed them onto the desk. They landed right next to the watch.

"It's all right," I said. "The subtitles are terrible."

"C'mon, let's have some pizza. I'm starved. I've got some beer in here too."

I was satisfied. In fact, I was sure that I would never be tempted to masturbate again in the way I had done it as the Jacker. I hoped that Paul would become my best friend. I liked him very much.

Two weeks went by. Paul called me, but he did not have me over to his house until the second Friday following the time I masturbated in his bathroom. He approached me at school, at lunch time. "Got a new movie for you," he said. "This one totally rules. Same thing--pizza, beers, my place?"

"Sounds great," I smiled.

"OK. See you about seven, if that's OK with you."

I drove over. It was a beautiful evening in mid-May. The dogwoods were in bloom and the sun stayed up over the horizon much later than I remember it before. I got to Paul's house. Once again the main house was dark. The only car in the driveway was Paul's Subaru.

I knocked on the door. I hoped he'd be casual again. Unfortunately he was wearing a shirt; it was a short-sleeved button-up shirt, blue with a little white grid pattern. It was unbuttoned to the second button, so I could at least see the very start of the small wispy patch of hair on his chest, but no more. He didn't have on his watch, either. "Come on in," he said.

Things were different. The room was cleaned up now. The bed was made, most of the video stuff was put away, and there were no clothes on the bed. Paul was barefoot, but fully clothed. I did not see the watch anywhere.

"Sit down," he said, motioning to the office chair.

Something was wrong. Almost immediately I began to fear that I'd been had after all.

"I want you to see this," he said. He held something in his hand. It was the remote control for the video system. He clicked it on. His main video screen sprang to life, but so did the two computer screens flanking it, all with the same image. It was a very grainy black-and-white shot that looked like a security camera. Stunned, I realized it was monitoring Paul's room.

At first I calmed myself. Paul had video equipment; maybe he was showing me some cool new setup he had just installed. I thought that because on the screen I could see myself sitting in the office chair, exactly where I now was. But then with a sinking feeling in my stomach I realized that on the screen I was wearing different clothes than I had on now, and the room on the screen was trashed. I wasn't looking at a view of the room right now. I was looking at myself the last time I'd been here.

The angle was very strange. It looked like, wherever the camera had been, it was above and behind me. I saw myself reclining in the office chair. Then I stood up. I walked around the room, and then out of sight.

Bars of static choked the bottom of the screen. Paul was fast-forwarding. "You're gone for exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds," he said. "Then, this happens."

I came back into view again. I must have just come back in from looking for Paul outside. I wanted to crawl into a hole as I watched myself, on the screen, bolt for the desk and snatch up his watch. I couldn't even watch myself sniff his underwear. It was too embarrassing. I cradled my head in my hands. I was never so mortified in my entire life, and have never been so since.

Paul pressed a button and stopped the playback. "You stole my watch and my jockey shorts," he said, softly but insistently. "I got you, you son of a bitch. I got you on tape."

I sat up. "Paul, I can explain," I said breathlessly.

"You're the Jacker."

"No. I can explain--"

"Don't even try to lie to me. Don't EVEN try." Paul backed up. Soon he was standing against the door. He reached behind him, locked it and even drew the little chain across it. He intended to trap me. "You are, aren't you? You're going to make it harder on yourself if you deny it. I can PROVE it. I've got you on tape."

What could I do? Grimly I nodded. "Yes," I said. "I'm the Jacker."

Paul stared at me for a long time. His face remained calm, immobile, but in retrospect I wonder if he was amazed that his suspicions and his deduction had been proven correct. I would have been. This kind of thing happens in movies and in stories, but not in real life.

"I can explain," I repeated. "I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry. I'm SO sorry, man. I didn't mean to offend you. Please, don't tell anybody. If you tell anybody--"

He closed his eyes and held up his hands. In his right hand he still had the remote for the video system. "Save it," he said. "You're not in charge anymore. I am."

I was silent. There was nothing I could say. All manner of terrible thoughts rushed through my head. I wondered what it would be like to be in jail. I couldn't imagine the shock, the disapproval of my parents. Not only would they find out that I liked guys--somehow I thought the distinction between "gay" and "bisexual" would be lost on them--but they would learn about it at the same time as they realized the magnitude of my crimes. I was ruined. I would probably be expelled from school, which would mean I wouldn't get into college. They'd put me in counseling. Shrinks and social workers would cross-examine me, and every one of them would want to know the same thing: why did I do it? It was a question I couldn't answer. Even if I wasn't expelled, I would have to leave school anyway. All I would have to do would be to pass Joe Carallo or Ronan in the hall, and I would be shamed beyond any hope of redemption. Everyone would know what I did. Who could go on after such humiliation?

Slowly Paul moved away from the door. He kept his distance from me.

"All right," he said. "Here's what's going to happen. I have the tape. I already made copies of it. You're going to do exactly what I say. If I don't like the way you do it, or if you disobey me, that tape goes to Reinhardt, and the school board, and the cops. Along with my story, and the fact that you just admitted you were the Jacker. Is this clear to you, Kyle?"

I swallowed hard. "Crystal," I replied.

"Good. Now sit down on the bed."

I backed away from him and sat down slowly. Only then did I start to realize the situation I was in. My heart was pounding and blood was rushing in my ears. But there was something about the way Paul was looking at me that made me wonder if he wasn't out to get me after all.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked him.

"First things first," said Paul, "we're going to sit down and have a nice little chat. I have questions, and I'm sure you do. We're going to get that out of the way first."

He was looking at me in a very strange way. First? His use of the word "first" meant that something came after, that he had a lot more in mind than just a "nice little chat."

Paul walked over and took hold of his office chair. He wheeled it over to the other side of the bedroom, across from the bed. He put the video system remote down on the arm of the chair. Then he backed up so he was in reach of the small refrigerator. He opened it. "Want a beer?" he said.

This act of kindness puzzled me. "Uh...sure."

He took out a bottle of Heineken and tossed it to me. "Bottle opener on the computer desk," he said. He had one himself, on his key ring. After he opened the bottle and took a couple of long swallows--he looked very pleased with himself--I said, "How did you tape me? Where was the camera?"

Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he set the Heineken bottle on the edge of his dresser and wheeled his chair over to one of the shelf units laden with video equipment. From a shelf he took a small black object no bigger than his closed fist. He tossed it to me. It was a cube of plastic with rounded edges. One of the surfaces was a convex glass disc--a lens. I realized I had seen this object before.

"The camera with the remote eyepiece," Paul explained. "You remember--I showed it to you a couple of months ago. I got it for Christmas. I taped the eyepiece to the ceiling, right up there in the corner of the room by the door. The range is ten feet, so the camera unit itself could be hidden anywhere in the room. It was right here on the shelf the whole time. All the times you've been over here you never even noticed it. I taped you the last couple of times you've been over. The last time I had to give you a safe opportunity. I had most of it figured out. If you jumped at it, I knew you were the Jacker."

"But you went to get pizza," I said. "That was all arranged?"

"I called the pizza place to put in my take-out order fifteen minutes before you got here. When I was on the phone--the whole thing about them taking two hours to deliver--that was all fake. I wasn't talking to anybody. I was afraid you were going to hear the dial tone on the phone. Later on after you left, when I ran back the tape, I saw you left to go look for me. You must have suspected I was on to you. You weren't going to make a move until you were sure I was really gone. I really was getting the pizza, but I figured you wouldn't guess I was secretly taping you."

I was amazed at Paul's cleverness, his intelligence. He could not have done what he did unless he had me figured out, totally, down to the last detail. I asked the question I most wanted to know the answer to. "How did you guess I was the Jacker?"

"I realized I was wrong about Carallo's pager. I thought that because the Jacker himself triggered the pager in class, that meant that it couldn't have been anybody in the same class. But when I thought about it, that didn't make sense. The Jacker couldn't have gotten away with the pager unless he knew Lowery took it that exact class, and unless he knew for sure where Lowery put it. The only way the Jacker would know that is if he was actually there when Lowery took it away from him. Sherlock Holmes said that if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, has to be the truth. So I knew the Jacker was in Carallo's fifth-period history class. That narrowed down the list of suspects."

"OK," I shrugged. "There are thirty kids in that class. Why me?"

"Once I realized the Jacker was in Carallo's class I started to look for commonalities between all the victims. Ronan was at the theater the night we saw Titanic, so I knew that you knew who he was, and you must have seen his jacket that night. There was another victim too, one nobody knew about--Dominick Petra. I talked to Claire after you two broke up. I had my suspicions, and I started asking questions just to see if there was anything to them. She told me that Dominick said his gloves were stolen. I figured there had to be at least one more victim that hadn't been made public--probably more. You were dating Claire, so you had access to her house, and that's probably how you got Dominick's gloves. Then YOU became a victim. That's what did it for me. It was just too big a coincidence. Real convenient that I'm sniffing around trying to figure out who the Jacker is, and then suddenly you get your own shit stolen and left in the bathroom like everyone else's. Real nice way to throw me off the trail, huh, Kyle? Actually that was what convinced me that you were the Jacker."

"So you decided to trap me."

"Yeah, but even when I started to work on you, I still wasn't sure. I wasn't sure what did it for you, except you got off on stealing stuff from people. And you have a fetish for jockey briefs. Who's underwear was it that Andy Kamen found in the bathroom? It was somebody on the football team, wasn't it? That was why the schedules were scattered all over the place."

I swallowed again. "John Crane," I said.

"How'd you get it?"

"He threw them away. In the locker room, after it started raining when they were playing football. All the players came in and they were all muddy. I happened to be doing a make-up for P.E. class. It was just a coincidence. And Andy was wrong. It wasn't shit. I'm not THAT sick. It was mud. Just good clean mud."

"Were there any other victims? Ones we didn't hear about, ones Reinhardt may have kept quiet?"

There was no sense in holding anything back anymore. "Noah Sandoval," I blurted out.

"What did you steal from him?"

"Nothing. I got a shoe that looked like his, because I couldn't figure out how to steal the real thing. I came in his shoe and left it in the bathroom. I don't think anybody put it together with him."

"How did you call Carallo's pager in class? My guess is that you had a cell phone that you triggered without anybody seeing it. Am I right?"

I nodded. "It was in my pocket. It was Claire's phone."

"You stole it from Claire?"

I nodded again. "I made her think she lost it at a restaurant. The Manhattan Diner. Remember the day we went there? I wanted to go there so I could pretend like I found the phone."

"Clever. The one thing I can't figure out is, how did you get the pager out of Lowery's desk?"

I shrugged. "I was lucky. I went back into the classroom after Lowery left for study hall. I saw the drawer he put the pager in. He locked it, but he kept the keys in the top drawer. I was lucky to get out without getting caught."

"So you locked the desk after you took the pager?"

"Yeah."

"Why did you call his pager the night before?"

"I was practicing. I had to set up speed-dial numbers on Claire's phone, and I had to make sure I could press the right buttons in my pocket without being seen."

"Ohhhhhh." Paul sounded like he was truly interested in this, amazed that he hadn't thought of this. I was still marveling at how clever he was. Then he asked the question I knew was coming. "Why did you do this, Kyle?"

I shrugged again. "I don't really know."

"You don't KNOW?"

"It wasn't one single thing. It just--I don't know." I could feel my face getting red. "I'm sort of fucked up, I guess. But I want to say something to you. I never hurt anybody. Everything I stole from anybody, I returned. I didn't fuck up Carallo's pager. I put it in the plastic bag so that nothing would happen do it. It still worked, you know that because he could still get the numbers off of it when you called him. Ronan's jacket--he could have had it cleaned. I put money in the pocket so it could be. The notes I left, they were so that whoever discovered the stuff would know who the things belonged to. Even here, even your stuff--I didn't steal your watch. I took it into the bathroom with me, yeah, and your shorts too--but I wouldn't have taken them away from you. I never meant to hurt anybody. I'm not some sicko. I know everyone thinks I am, but I'm not. The whole thing just got--I dunno, out of control I guess. I know nobody's going to understand, but that's what it is. I didn't hurt anybody, at least I didn't mean to."

Paul was silent for a little while. "So you're gay," he finally said.

"No. I mean--well, yes. No--I don't know. Honestly I don't know. I like guys. But I like women too. I could just never admit I liked guys."

"What is it that does it for you? Stealing things, is that the thing? You're a--what do they call it, kleptomaniac?"

"No. I don't steal things normally. I just feel--a connection, I guess, to objects. Like your watch. You wore it. It became part of you. You had to know I was going to notice that watch sooner or later. That's why you did it, didn't you?"

Paul smiled. "My grandmother gave me that watch two Christmases ago," he said. "I haven't worn it since. I don't like big flashy watches. Honestly I wasn't sure you'd go for that or not. But if I hung around and tried to get your attention I figured you'd notice sooner or later, and then I had you where I wanted you. I figured I had a chance. That first time you came over, when I talked about all the Jacker stuff for the first time, I noticed the way you looked at me. You think I didn't, but I did. I wasn't trying to get your attention then. What the fuck, I hang around with my shirt off a lot, lots of guys do it. But I started to put things together and realized what was going on."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. "So what are you going to do?" I asked him. "Make me write out a confession? Take the tape to Channel 7? You know, it doesn't really prove that I'm the Jacker. It proves I took your watch and your shorts into the bathroom, but that wouldn't convict me. Nobody's going to care."

"You're probably right." Paul smirked. "But I think they WILL care about this."

He wheeled his chair over to the computer. He clicked on something and began to fiddle with the mouse. My stomach sank. There was a window on the computer screen with a slider bar and a control panel that looked like a tape recorder. With the mouse arrow Paul pulled the slider bar slightly back and hit Play. I heard my own voice coming from the speakers:

"So what are you going to do? Make me write out a confession? Take the tape to Channel 7? You know, it doesn't really prove that I'm the Jacker..."

"You don't have to write out a confession," said Paul cheerfully. "I've got the whole thing recorded. Your own words. Come on, Kyle--you don't think I'd have sprung this on you without having the place wired, did you?"

Silence again. Paul continued to look very pleased with himself. But he said nothing more, and took no action other than to take another drink of Heineken.

"So what ARE you going to do?" I asked him.

"That depends on you."

"What do you mean, it depends on me?"

"You're lucky I'm the guy who found out about this. You can still save yourself. I don't want to take the tape to the cops or the press, but I will if I have to."

"You're not making any sense."

He turned back to the computer. He began to fiddle with it; a moment later I saw the computers start to shut down. When every one of them said "It Is Safe To Shut Down Your Computer," Paul hit a switch on the power strip on the floor and all the machines turned off. He swiveled back to me.

"No computers, no recorders," he said. "It's just you and me now. What are you willing to do to get me to destroy the tapes?"

The smirk on his face suddenly gave me a clue what he was driving at. My eyes grew wide. My heart seized in my throat. "Wait...wait a minute," I said softly.

"Take your clothes off."

"You're kidding."

"I told you, you're going to do what I say." He was smiling. This was a joke to him. "I'm going to tell you exactly what to do and how to do it. Come on, part of you wants it. You obviously fantasized about it the last time you were over here. Now you have the chance to do it."

"You're gay?"

"Always have been."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He was already unbuttoning his shorts. "Are you going to take your clothes off or what?" he said sternly. A moment later he pulled his shorts down over his knees and they hit the floor. He reached inside his underwear and withdrew a medium-sized penis, totally straight, like my own except his wasn't cut. Paul was as hard as I suddenly was in that moment, and I realized I was looking at another male's erect member for the first time in my life since seeing the boy in the locker room after swim class years ago. He stroked himself lightly, pulled his foreskin up over his head and then back again, and then quite casually reached for his beer on the edge of the computer desk. My own hands were frozen in the act of unbuttoning my jeans. For a little while I could only stare, my emotions a mix of excitement, fear, lust, longing, shame, pride and exhilaration. Whatever happened in the next hour, my life would never be the same.

It wasn't.

That evening I had sex with another male for the first time in my life, and it was a fascinating and liberating experience. Paul obviously enjoyed the power he had over me, and I think he designed the experience to be somewhat humiliating for me, but it wasn't, and I doubt I fooled him. He didn't seem the kind of guy who was into dominating or humiliating anyone, but he probably didn't know that yet. First he made me suck him. He sat there in his office chair, thighs spread far apart, and I rubbed my hands along the hair on the inside of his thighs before I closed my hand around his penis and moved my mouth toward it. "Yeah, take it all," he said, tipping his head back. "The whole thing if you can get it. C'mon, Kyle. Ohhh--yeah, like that. That's good." He caressed my stubbly head and my shoulders as I worked on him. My first experience giving head was a pleasant one. It felt totally natural to me, and I enjoyed it. "Rub your tongue--uhh--rub your tongue under my foreskin. Under there--yeah--OW, too hard--OK--oh yeah. Yeah. That's good. Feels good. Put your hand there...yeah, right there on my balls. Do that, aw yeah, just like you're doing. Oh God...I'm gonna cum...I'm gonna cum...oh God...OH KYLE, I'M GONNA CUM, GONNA CUM, SWALLOW IT, SWALLOW IT, SWALLOW IT UUUUHHHHH!" The eruption on my tongue was warm and sensual, and suddenly I was connected to Paul in a way far beyond my adolescent antics in his bathroom. I understood in that moment, in a way I hadn't understood with Claire, how a sexual act can bring you together with a person and create a connection. I swallowed what Paul gave me. When it was over he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and reached for his beer. He was smiling, sort of laughing. "Wow. That was great."

"Have you ever done this before?" I asked him, reaching for my own beer.

"No. You?"

"No. Not with a guy."

"Stand up. Come over here, stand right in front of my chair." I was standing, he was sitting; my erect dick was directly in his face. I dared to hope he would reciprocate the blow job I'd just given him. But it wasn't to be. "Now you're going to do what you do best. Jack off." He smiled, and then reached behind him. "Here, do you need something to help you?" He opened a drawer of the desk and took out his watch. He put it in my hand. Our fingers brushed each other in a very sensual and exciting way. I put the watch on my left hand, closed the clasp and started masturbating. He quietly gave me orders, but it was obvious he was fascinated, enthralled. "Do it faster. Come on. Yeah, that's good. Is it feeling good to you?"

"Yes."

"Is that how fast you go?"

"I can go faster."

"Do it." With his hands he caressed the back of my knees. My knees were pressed up against his spread thighs. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. I could feel the weight of the watch on my wrist, the warmth of Paul's skin, and the building pleasure in my groin. "I'm going to cum," I said in a loud whisper.

"Do it right where you are. Don't move." He kept tight hold of my knees. My breath turned into little gasps, and my dick let loose. I looked down. He didn't touch me with his hands or his mouth; he was just watching. I came in his lap and on the chair he was sitting in. Several splatters landed on his chest and his stomach. He obviously didn't care, and seemed to like it. Only after I let go of myself did he touch my penis, which was beginning to slacken, its head covered with pearly sperm. He gently caressed it. He brought a sperm-wet finger to his lips and tasted it. He had seen what he wanted to see: the Jacker in action. He'd seen it up close and personal. I think he was fascinated. The mystery had been solved for him.

"Let's take a little break," he said. "Get in bed. Want another beer?"

"Sure."

We spent the evening in bed. It was strangely casual, low-key. I huddled with Paul under the covers of his bed, feeling the warmth of his thick body next to mine. We played with each other, caressed, explored each other's genitals, and we even kissed a little. We drank beers; I sat mine on the shelf above his headboard and he sat his on the floor under the bed. Mostly we chatted. He had questions. "You think John Crane is attractive? Ugh. He's a jock. What did you ever see in him?" He asked about the little details, like how I got Claire's phone and how long it took me to make the notes. He was surprised that I had "done" Ronan's jacket at home and then brought it to school already cum-upon. Finally there was no more talking. The caressing grew heavier and more insistent. He grew authoritative again, or tried to. "Lay on your back. Hold your dick up, like this. I'm going to get you inside me." He tried to sit on me so I would penetrate his butt. We didn't succeed at that, but we each got off one more time, Paul in my hand (he wanted to be "jacked" by the Jacker) and a few minutes later me in Paul's mouth. When it was over we lay there together, and I think we slept a little while but not too long. Outside the sun had finally gone down and crickets chirped comfortingly. I stared toward the ceiling. I felt a great peace growing inside of me. I was satisfied, the same way I'd been months before after the Jacker attacks.

"I'll destroy the tapes, you know," he said, as we pulled our clothes back on. It was ten-thirty; I had an eleven o'clock curfew. "You earned the right to get away with it."

"I trust you."

When he finished buttoning up his shirt he brushed twin locks of long brown hair back behind his ears, and then looked at me. "Um--would you--I mean, do you want to do this again sometime?" He seemed almost embarrassed to ask. He hastened to add: "You don't have to if you don't want to. Even if you don't want to I'll still destroy the tapes. I promise I won't tell anyone, if you don't tell anybody that I'm gay."

"You know I won't." I tied my shoes. I leaned over and kissed Paul lightly on the lips. "You have my word on it." I stood up and took my car keys out of my pocket. "We never did eat, did we?"

"Do you?" he said.

"Do I what?"

"Want to do this again."

I smiled. "You didn't have to blackmail me into sleeping with you, man. I'd have done it for free. All you ever would have had to do was ask."

I opened the door and stepped out of the garage into the warm spring night. The stars were shining overhead, and a sliver of moon hung over the trees. It was a beautiful evening. In a few weeks it would be summer vacation. I remember few moments of my high school career being as blissful as that one. I drove home, went to bed, and slept soundly.

The Jacker was history.

THE END.